Even Batman cries sometimes
by Ophelia Lake
Summary: John is on a hunt and has left Dean in charge. No biggie, Dean can handle it. Right? Wee-Chesters


AN I: Thank you for reading. I own nothing but the mistakes. Please help me to improve my writing and leave a review. Now on with the story.

He was tired. So freakin tired. His bones felt brittle, his nerve endings felt like they were on fire, like ants crawling up and down his weary body. His eyes were gritty, swollen heavy lids held open through the last dregs of his iron clad willpower alone. Damn, he wanted to sleep, just fall down right there and sink into oblivion. But, he wouldn't, he couldn't.  
There would be no rest for Dean Winchester tonight. Sammy needed him.

Dean hunched his shoulders tight against the wind, hands jammed into the worn pockets of his frayed jeans. His jacket did little to protect his small frame from the brittle and biting cold having long since outlived its original durability. But he wasn't looking for comfort. He wore the jacket because it was big with deep pockets.

Dean Winchester was on a mission.

Back at the ratty motel 7 year old Sammy was sick. His hair was slick with sweat and his skin flushed from the onset on his climbing fever. Dean had been trying for two days to get Sammy better, pushing water and Tylenol, saltines and seven up. But now the Tylenol was gone, all used up last night. The money Dad left him with was gone too. Dad was supposed to be back last week, he called to say there was another case, and he wanted to know if the boys would be alright. That brief phone call had been 5 days ago.

Dean knew what was expected of him, knew what he was supposed to say. So, he answered with a sharp yes sir and reassured his father that they had enough money, food, and weapons. He neglected to mention the rattling cough keeping Sammy up at night, or the dwindling jar of peanut butter. The money John Winchester was referring too had covered the rent and a few scattered groceries. But that was two weeks ago.

And now the Tylenol was gone.

Dean didn't want to admit it, but he was scared and desperate. He'd been limiting the food, only feeding Sammy, and eating the leftovers for himself after the kid was done. He'd even gone out and searched for soda cans to turn it. He didn't really want to take Sammy out in the cold and he didn't want to leave him alone for too long either, so Dean hadn't found many. It was winter break, so no hustling his classmates out of their undeserved and over-inflated allowance.

As usual life wasn't asking his opinion before screwing him over. He had tried cooling Sammy down in the bath and with cool washcloths. He tried to conserve the medicine, he really did. But, when the fever read 103 last night he'd been forced to give Sammy the last dose. This afternoon, Sammy fell asleep for a nap even though he'd stopped taking those years ago, and when Dean went to wake him up he was burning up. Sammy spoke but he wasn't making sense, sightless eyes and garbled words.

It scared Dean, Sammy was his whole world, and Dad had left him in charge. He'd stripped the kid, threw him in the ice cold bath, and tried to reassure himself it would be fine. Sammy's temperature after the bath still read 103.9. Dean tried to call his dad even though he knew he wasn't supposed to bother him on important hunts, but he was only 11 years old and Dean was at the end of his rope. Course, he only got voice mail which was typical.

Which was how Dean ended up standing outside the mini mart at midnight with a disastrous plan to steal children's Tylenol. Dean hated stealing, he knew it was wrong. He just hoped that if his mom was watching she would know it was for Sammy. Shaking his head he entered the store, resolved to his plan.

Dean blinked groggily in the harsh fluorescent lighting. For just a moment his vision wavered and his steps faltered. He knew it had been a while since he'd eaten and slept. He just had to get the Tylenol for Sammy, then he could rest. Dad would be home soon. The mini mart was open all night, catering to the seedy end of town, but it was also located next door to the motel which made it perfect for what Dean needed. There was a guy at the counter, stringy hair and a backwards baseball cap. He didn't spare Dean a passing glance, just continued reading his magazine.

Dean scanned the isles for the one marked medicine and health and then deliberately walked in the opposite direction. His plan was to misdirect and mislead. Dean had just enough loose change for a candy bar. He figured he'd walk around, get the candy bar, sneak the Tylenol, and pay for the candy with no one being any wiser. He just hoped it would work.

There were so many things on the shelves that he and Sammy could use, food, milk, soap, even popsicles for Sammy's sore throat. But, that would be excessive and ultimately they only thing he really needed was the medicine for Sammy. Dean ignored the dizziness, pushed down the persistent hunger in his empty belly, and kept walking.

Dean made it to the candy isle and he grabbed a Hershey bar. It was cheap and a classic. You couldn't go wrong with the classics. He held it in between his shaking fingers and walked as casually as he could over by the medicines. He saw, much to his relief, they had a variety of Tylenol flavors. That was good cause Sammy only liked the grape, get him cherry and he'd spit it back out. Dean had learned that one the hard way years ago.

He found the small bottle boasting the grape liquid and feeling his stomach clench painfully, Dean twisted his body to shield his left side and deftly slid it into his pocket. The guilty feeling was battling the scared feeling and it caused Dean to swallow a bunch before he could shove away the nausea bubbling at the back of his throat. He walked up to the counter and silently put the Hershey's bar on the smooth faded surface.

The guy barely even looked up from his magazine.

"Seventy five cents, kid."

Dean dropped the change on the counter, damp from his sweaty palm. The sound of the coins trilling against each other boomed loud as a gunshot in his ears. He palmed the candy and turned walking briskly towards the exit, shoulders hunched.

Stepping out into the night, the air felt frigid against his clammy skin. The motel lights flickered across the street, neon and tarnished against the inky dark sky. He was so tired, even more so now that he had accomplished what he set out to do. It was as if the fear of being caught and the shame at not being caught had zapped the little energy he had left. Dean swayed, the motel turning off kilter in his rapidly fading vision.

Sammy needed him.

Shaking his head roughly, Dean straightened, and soldiered on. Sammy needed this medicine and he would give it to him. He'd come too far to fail now. Horrifyingly, he could feel tears prickling behind his eyes as two solitary tears trailed down his cheeks, salty and warm against his chapped lips. He didn't know why he was crying. Dean Winchester didn't do tears, they were for babies. He bit his lip hard.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

I am Batman and Batman doesn't cry.

I will NOT cry!

Instead, he tasted the metallic tang of his blood. He'd bitten his lip. But he'd stopped with the tears and that was all that mattered. Dad said Dean could handle it so Dean could handle it. He started walking again, a lone small figure, trudging brokenly in the dark.

He tried not to remember when he was sick and Mom used to make him tomato rice soup. He tried to forget Mom just saw him steal. It was for Sammy. Sammy needed him.

He crossed the parking lot, stepping around burnt cigarette butts on the cracked asphalt. The door of their room was just as he left it, closed tight, and the shades of the window were down. Dean unlocked the door with shaking fingers and stepped across the threshold, careful to not disturb the salt lines.

Sammy was as he left him too. Curled in a sweaty hot ball on top of the bed farthest from the door, thumb in his mouth. Another habit Sammy had dropped years ago. He hadn't even flinched at the opening of the door, still swimming in feverish misery. Dean walked to the bed and laid the back of his wrist expertly against Sammy's brow. It was still really hot. He picked up the thermometer from the aging bedside table between the two beds and placed it under Sammy's armpit.

It read 104, and Dean hurried to open the Tylenol. He knew the dose by heart, but checked the back of the box just in case. Confirming the amount based on the kid's age was correct, Dean nodded once to himself and then drew it up in the stopper. With a practiced ease, Dean slid behind Sammy and cradled his baby brother's head against his chest. He tipped his head back and using one hand positioned the dropper against the corner of Sammy's mouth. Dean placed a few drops in the hollow of Sam's cheek and used his other hand to tickle the underside of his jaw, hoping to make Sam involuntarily swallow rather than choke on the thick purple suspension.

Sammy stirred slightly and swallowed. Dean had never felt such a sweet sharp relief at watching Sammy swallow something before, then he did in that moment. Encouraged, Dean tried again with the rest of the dose, twitching his lips in an exhausted ghost of a smile when Sammy successfully ingested the complete dose. Dean leaned his shaking head back against the head board briefly and closed his eyes. He positioned Sammy further against him, so if Sammy woke up, moved, or even started breathing funny, Dean would feel the change in the cadence of his movement against his own chest.

He knew he should get up, maybe get some more cool rags, try and get the fever down. But the room was blessedly dark, and Sammy was warm, fast heating Dean's shivering and chilled skin. His stomach growled again but he was too tired to think much about it. Maybe he'd rest his eyes just for a minute.

It was much later, when John Winchester came in through the door. His whole body ached, bruises already blossoming from the latest hunt. He'd gotten the bastard though so any physical pain was negligible in his mind. The boys were curled around each other, soft snores mingling together. It looked like Dean had everything handled, just like he knew he would. He'd been distracted by the ghost and lost his phone when he went crashing against a mausoleum wall. The boys hadn't called though. They knew better than to bother John, unless it was an emergency.

Deciding he'd see them in the morning, John toed off his boots, and passed out on the other bed.

He never noticed Dean watching him in the dark, eyes suspiciously shiny. If he had, he might have asked him if everything was fine. But even if he had, Dean would have told him it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

And John would have made himself believe him.

AN II: Thank you so much for reading, please leave a review. They mean the world to me!


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